


Loss of Self

by Eros94



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:19:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eros94/pseuds/Eros94
Summary: A requested drabble from my Tumblr - basically the ACE Chemicals scene from Suicide Squad, but put into words.





	

     It’s a rainy night in Gotham, the building filled with the soft rumble of the droplets on the metal roof over their heads. It took Joker _months_ to set this up, starting when he was incarcerated in Arkham once again, only to be on permanent isolation with his only trips out of the padded cell being visits to his new psychiatrist. Of course that part wasn’t planned, but he’s _resourceful_ , always has been, and Joker had found a new plan right during the first conversation he had with doctor Harleen Quinzel. His new little **harlequin**. Oh, she’d been so eager to get under his skin, to squeeze all his secrets out of him like he was just another inmate who just wanted to be _heard_ … he’d told her plenty, but **never** what she wanted to hear.

     Undoubtedly she had felt **sorry** for him in the beginning. The only registered life story they had on him was the evil daddy-drunk mommy one, and she knew that one inside out - but she’d made clear that she didn’t believe that was the full _truth_ when they first met. No, she was a _smart_ one. She could see he wasn’t being honest. So he gave her at least sixteen other versions, all sad and heart-wrenching, topped off with a good dose of laughter, of course. Not even Joker could remember the actual **truth** , but Harleen probably constructed a story with all the bits and pieces he’d given her. She learned _fast_.  
     The harlequin had stepped into his lair, unaware that she wasn’t approaching a wounded _pup_ but a _**lion** _ in his _prime_ , and when she figured that out herself, it was too late. _Teeth_ had sunk into her flesh, _claws_ embedded in her skin, and she was _bleeding_ into him, giving free her secrets and doubts until he knew her better than she’d ever know him.  
**She fell in love.**

     “This is where I was **born**.” He startles her by speaking suddenly, the golden waves of her hair looking as beautiful as ever in the sickening glow that comes from the chemicals far below them. But she’s here for _him_ , for _them_ , for _herself_.  
     “Seems like a bad place to grow up for a child.” Blue eyes glance over her shoulder, lips revealing a hesitant smile.  
     “Oh no, I meant my **rebirth** , darlin’. When I became _me_.” His own eyes wander down, and he looks as if he belongs here, amidst toxic chemicals and death, danger, the bowels of a city gone mad, where the acid dissolves everything that doesn’t belong here. Joker is Gotham’s acid, merciless and terrifying.  
     “Did it _hurt_?” Harleen’s scared, it radiates off of her in cool waves, and she turns back to stare down, knowing that is where he wants her to go, the long fall that will kill her, no doubt. But he asked her, he brought her here, to this place that holds so much meaning for Joker - she couldn’t say no even if she tried.  
      **“Yes.”** Something inside Joker tightens at the confession. Will she feel the same pain that he did? The fire on her skin, seeping into her nose, her mouth, her eyes, eating away at her? It will destroy her, break her apart, they’ll probably never find the body, not even her bones. All gone.  
     His hand trails along her arm, touching her like he wants to make sure just for once more that she wants to be here as much as he wants her to be. She’ll die, he’ll get over it, that’s how these things work. Not like she means anything. Nothing means anything to Joker. It’s what makes him strong.

 **“Question.”** His tone has changed, more distant. _Disconnected_. Harleen turns immediately, the loyal thing, eyes expectantly gazing at him, waiting for every single word he’ll speak. This is it. This is the moment.  
     “Would you **die** for me?” He sees her thinking. About what she should tell him. Should she tell him that she’s scared? That she wants to go home? That this was never what she’d wanted? Sure, she had wanted to become more intimate than just doctor and patient, but this spun out of her control long ago. She keeps it to herself.  
     “Yes.” So eager to please. No, he doesn’t want this to be a ‘yes’. He wants her to say no and do it anyway, do what he wants rather than what she wants. He isn’t here to let her do as she pleases, he wants her not to agree with what she’ll do.  
     “That’s too easy. Would you…” he stops. Gazes at her. Those blue eyes. He could have fallen in love with those eyes if he could have felt love. They’re pools of tenderness, telling Joker that she would give him everything she had if he asked her. She’s that kind of girl. Too kind for a city like Gotham, a place like ACE Chemicals and Arkham - too sweet for the world they live in today. She should never have met him. He _ruined_ her.  
     “Would you _**live** _ for me?” There is a whisper in the back of his mind suddenly, telling him it’s not impossible. All those years ago he survived, maybe she can too. It’s stupid to think that, and his own thoughts anger him. Hope isn’t his _style_ , certainly not for a fucking girl - but here he is, unable to keep it from invading his darker thoughts. She doesn’t reply as fast as before. Harleen doesn’t understand what he means, didn’t they come here so he could wipe her off the face of the earth? A last act, Juliet sacrificing herself for Romeo? An ultimate proof of her love and devotion to him?  
     “… _Yes_.” Of course she would if she could.

     He wants to _touch_ her, feel the warmth of her skin for a last time, to know this is real, this is not a hallucination just like all the others. She is here, Harleen is here. With him, for him.  
     “Careful.” A last warning. The chances aren’t even, no 50/50 split on whether she’ll survive or die. She will die. But if she… if she _doesn’t_ … “Do not say this oath thoughtlessly.”  
     He wants her to live. He wants her to survive. It aches in his bones, in his very fingertips and ribs, a tingle that makes it hard to breathe. It’s probably the air coming from the chemicals, he tells himself, too toxic for anyone to be in it for longer than several minutes. The chemicals. _**Not** _ feelings. He’s left those behind years ago. Joker steps closer, feels the heat of her body in the world around them that’s so cold, but he can see the determination in her eyes. Back out of this while you can, Harleen. You can still say no, he can still let her go now. But she wants it now, _craves_ it. To die for him, to show him that she can do this, that she is prepared to throw her life away for him. Everything in the past years since she introduced herself has been leading up to this. **To live or to die.** For Joker.  
     She can’t smile, he knows that feeling all too well - the hand that has the wide, wide grin tattooed on the back slides over her mouth, silencing any words she wants to say to explain her decision. He doesn’t want her to say all those things.  
     “Desire becomes surrender, surrender becomes **power**.” It’s what he’s learned. Before he was reborn, he was a nobody. A zero. A loser. His fall had made him strong, his surrender to it had taught him new ways, new opportunities. It had opened his eyes to a new world, full of colors and shapes that he’d never seen before, and it was a glorious world. The risk is so _high_.  
     He caresses Harleen’s face, that soft skin that will burn away within seconds. He can’t stop this anymore, this is going to happen and she wants it. It’s such an odd realization that it causes a tremor in Joker’s bones, a strange calmness taking over as he accept the inevitable.

     “Do you want this?” She does. She wants it so bad he can taste it on his lips, feel it in the air, smell it in the humidity clinging to their skins.  
    **“I do.”**

     There is nothing that gives him more pleasure than this. This moment. It’s wrong, he has corrupted a mind that could and would have done so much good in the world, in Gotham, in him - but that is what he **does** , isn’t it? Show the world that nothing is too pure to be corrupted. Not even a soul like Harleen Quinzel.  
     “Say it.” Joker needs to hear it, needs her to ask him for permission to take the last step. If he says no, she will stop, this all ends, they will part ways and she will survive. She will go back to her safe little life, write a whole series of books and become famous without doubt, an example for the world of what a hard-working spirit can achieve. She can become anything she wants. “Say it… _say it_.”  
     When he looks at her, he tips her chin up so he can drag his gaze over those tender features, blessed with a beauty that’s hard to find in the world. She’s flawless. An illusion, she’ll disappear if their contact breaks. _Beg_ for it, Harleen. _Beg me_ to allow you to do this.  
     “Pretty pretty pretty-” Of course she does as he wants. **“Please.”** Almost a question. She’ll see through him. See the dilemma reflected in his pinpoint pupils if he doesn’t speak now, doesn’t distract her attention.  
     It hurts that she wants it. “God, you’re so… _**good**_.” Death awaits her, only one step away, an accidental slip of her foot, a nudge of his shoulder against hers - no. She has to do it. She has to make the final choice.

     “It will _hurt_.” She doesn’t hear him. “It will _burn_.” She smiles, faintly, secretively. This is their secret. His breathing becomes heavier, adam’s apple bobbing as he forces the bile back down, and with every passing moment he backs away further, giving her space. Hands come up, coaxing. _Go on. Do it. You know you want it, now **do it**._  
     She’s like an angel, light, beautiful, surrounded by the glow from below as she spreads her arms.

     And then she goes. It goes quicker than Joker expects, no slow-motion dramatic shit, she just steps back and… **gone**. Was she ever there? He is by the edge soon enough, looming over that abyss, and the sound of her hitting the liquid rings in his ears. That’s it. It’s done. Harleen is gone. Problem solved. _Dissolved_ , more like. **Haha**.

     With quick strides he’s on his way back. There is nothing here for him anymore. He’s filling his head with thoughts about other things, trying to get the to overrule the images of flesh burning off of bone, hair scorching away, everything that was once Harleen slowly melting into the chemicals. There is no screeching to indicate that it hurts, that she’s suffering, but Joker’s skin is itching because he knows. He **KNOWS**.  
     His steps halt, every centimeter that he moves away something inside his ribcage clenches, throbs painfully. It can’t be love. If there is one thing that it can’t be, it’s love. He doesn’t _love_ her. He doesn’t _**need** _ her. It’s a fucking joke. A groan passes his lips, and before he can put himself over this, before he can erase those plush lips and blue eyes, those hands that were always too eager to touch him, that mind that wanted to desperately to become like his, to understand him - before she can become just another sad memory, something makes him turn back, the glow seeming even brighter than before, calling him, pulsing in the darkness, _beckoning_ him to follow the blonde doctor.

     His jacket swings off, thrown to the side, teeth drag across his lower lip until it bleeds, and half a second later he is over the edge, doing what he swore he’d never do - he **cares**. He cares, and it’s the worst thing he has felt in decades, a burning that most certainly hurts more than the burn of the toxic soup he’s aiming for. But he feels something, and that… that makes this the worst. He doesn’t feel. He only hates. Hate and rage and anger. He doesn’t have space for anything else, and certainly not for _**LOVE**_.  
     He hits the liquid hard, hands stretched out, and he immediately finds the curve of her waist on the bottom of the vat, and he drags her body close against himself. She’s dead, he’s too late and he knows it. He killed her. God, that hurts. He can feel his clothes melting, his gums aching where the cracks in his lips let some of the chemicals through, but then his feet find the ground, and he’s up again, dripping, pulling Harleen above the surface. So pale. So cold. Joker sucks in air, lips pressing to hers in a last attempt to not make her stillness eternal as he tries to breathe the life back into her.

     She’s alive. She breathes. She smiles. **She’s alive.** Her hands grip his arms, making sure this is reality and not an illusion in the afterlife, but then Joker kisses her. Passionately, desperately even, feeling relief wash over him that she’s right there, no more dead than he is, and it’s never felt this good to have a hand rush into his hair to grab and tug, the other scratching at the aching skin of his back, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

He breaks the kiss, throws his head back, and his laugh echoes through the large, open space: _**she’s alive, and she’s his.**_


End file.
